Aftermath
by rachieroo14
Summary: John and his lack of coping after the Reichenbach Fall. Reunion fic. Eventual Johnlock. Please read & review.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. Just playing in the sandbox (:**

John Watson couldn't breathe.

For a few seconds he panicked, but the panic was dismissed by the knowledge that if he stopped for a moment and inhaled, he'd be okay. So he did exactly that.

He forced himself to stop crying and took a deep, almost painful breath. Then he turned his head and saw the door to _his_ room, and the body-shaking sobs started all over again.

**A/N: Thanks for reading (: Reviews would make me happy, so could you please, lovlies?**


	2. Chapter 2

He's lost a friend in college. Andrew. They were best mates; they hung out together after class and on weekends. Went to parties together, studied together, and played football together. Then one morning Andrew hadn't shown up for class. John had shrugged it off, unworried. Then when he got home the phone has rang. Andrew was dead, murdered the one time John hadn't felt like going to the pub with him.

He'd lost friends in the war. One particular man, Benjamin, he'd become fond of. John commanded him, but they were friends. They joked together, played cards together, and would have a beer every now and again. John watched Benjamin die, was unable to save him as he bled to death with his head cradled in doctor's lap. "Tell my wife and daughter I love them," he'd said as the life slipped from him. John went to the service and stood next to Mary and Sophie while they cried over their husband and father.

He'd lost his best friend two weeks ago. His absolute best friend, Sherlock Holmes. They shared a flat, hardly ate anything but takeaway, and ran around London together solving crimes. John watched Sherlock jump off a building and onto the cement below. The building where they'd met and had spent so much time in.

John blamed himself for Andrew's death. If he'd gone with him, maybe he would've been able to prevent what had happened or at least helped him and called the ambulance, as opposed to Andrew dying alone at 3am in an alley.

John blamed himself for Benjamin's death. If he'd gotten to him a little faster, his pregnant wife wouldn't have had to raise two children on her own, and two children would still have their father.

John blamed himself for Sherlock's death. He knew what Sherlock had told him in their last conversation hadn't been true. Sherlock Holmes was not a fake, he wasn't, and no one could convince him he had been. John didn't know what had really happened that day, but he felt so in the dark about all of it. But the one thing he knew for certain was that it had been something to do with Jim Moriarty. Maybe if he'd insisted on going to that rooftop, or had forced Sherlock to go with him to see a perfectly fine Mrs. Hudson, or done something - anything - his best friend in the whole of the world would still be alive right now.

Everything came down to him. All three of these deaths were a fault of his.


	3. Chapter 3

There were things John Watson had left unsaid. He'd meant to say them someday, not right now, later. He really had, and he'd been going to. Unfortunately, it was too late to say them to Sherlock's face.

He shrugged on his coat and walked through the light rain to the cemetery. It was only about a fifteen minute walk from 221B Baker Street.

He arrived and wove through the headstones_. All these people,_ he thought. _They were children and siblings and significant others. Students and workers. Mothers, fathers, and grandparents. And now they're all gone, just like he is._

He found the simple black headstone easily. It had good six or seven meter radius from all the other ones and was located beneath a tree. Sherlock would've liked that, seeing as he was not particularly fond of strangers – or people for that matter – and the tree would provide shade on any sunny days. Sherlock hadn't liked the sun. John had asked him about it one day and he answered with an explanation of how he liked his coat and scarf, but it would be absurd to wear them on a sunny day. John had laughed and shook his head.

Now he sat cross-legged on the slightly damp grass, hands folded in his lap. Alive or dead, he needed to have this out.

"I see some of your flowers are dying. I would've brought you some but I remember you telling me once you didn't like the way they smelled," he said aloud with a small smile playing on his lips. "It's the kind of day you like, Sherlock. Not a down pour, but lightly sprinkling. Overcast but not dark. No wind, no sun."

"John stop making small talk, say what you came to say," John's mind said in the voice of the consulting detective. John imagined Sherlock sitting next to him, fingers steepled on his chin, looking at him impatiently and expectantly.

"Right. Well, the thing is, you probably know this already. You know everything, you sod. But I... Sherlock, I-I love you." John took a deep breath and rubbed his hand across his face. "Everything about you. Your smile, the way you talk and the way you move. I love your awkwardness and your confidence. That look you get just as things come together. Your cheekbones and bloody popped collar. Your eyes, your arrogance, and the shields you keep up around your heart, your cleverness and wit. You, Sherlock. I love every tiny bit and piece of you, all the time, even when you're being an annoying dick."

John sniffed and wiped away the wetness forming on his eyelashes... He'd been talking as though he were still alive.

"Of course none of that matters, does it? You're gone and I'm here. I won't see you again, ever. You'll never really know any of the things I said today."

John felt a pang in his chest as tears fell slowly down his cheeks. He reached forward and his hand tangled in the cold grass. He sat like that for a while, staring at Sherlock's name while he rested his hand above his eternal resting place.

He did a lot of thinking that day, but the thought that stayed forefront in his mind was: _This is not fair_.


	4. Chapter 4

John held the silk shirt to his face again and inhaled the scent of Sherlock Holmes. It was clean, yet mysterious and dark. He wasn't sure how to describe it, but it was the best smell in the world.

It brought tears to his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been seven months.

Seven months and the flat remained unchanged. John hadn't moved a thing of Sherlock's. There were still piles of useless junk, stacks of books; his blue silk dressing gown was still draped over the back of his favorite chair.

Of course John had disposed of the body parts and put the chemicals back into storage, but the glass beakers, the plastic dishes and the various measuring tools still sat on the counter. John had organized them as he had when Sherlock was still alive, so that they were there and easy to see instead of scattered about. Ready for use.

His room was also as he'd left it. Clean for the most part, only a couple of clothing items strewn on the floor. The bed was still unmade. John slept in there sometimes, on the nights when the lack of his presence felt to unbearable. It still smelled faintly of him, but with each passing day and the more John slept there, the less it smelt like Sherlock and more like him. That's why he'd begun to take a shirt to his bed with him and cuddle with it near his face.

John knew he had to start cleaning up and put his things into the boxes Mrs. Hudson had given to him. He just couldn't bring himself to do it.

Perhaps he should also begin looking for a new flat mate. He was able to afford the rent on his own and still have money left over, seeing as how his monthly rate had mysteriously decreased. But again, he just couldn't do it. The thought of another person sleeping in Sherlock's room, sitting in Sherlock's chair, using his and Sherlock's shower, cooking in his and Sherlock's kitchen... It made him want to punch that not yet existent person in the face.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly had rung him for the first time in a while. Sure they would text back and forth once in a while, but they rarely saw or spoke to each other since the thing linking them together was no longer here to link them.

She asked him to meet her for lunch and John had agreed. He wasn't sure why, but he had. Maybe it was for a change of scenery. Lestrade never called him for cases, only to go the pub, but that hadn't happened in over two weeks. He only ever went to work, to the pub, to the bank and the grocery store. And of course the cemetery.

* * *

"Hello John," she said in her usual shy yet sweet manner.

"Hi Molly," he said with a small smile. She surprised him and pulled him into a hug which he cautiously returned.

"I suppose we should sit," John said after a moment.

Molly sniffed and pulled back. "Right, okay."

They sat in silence before the waitress came to take their orders.

"So Molly, how've you been doing?"

"I'm fine thanks. You?"

"I'm alright. Anything interesting happening at St. Bart's?"

She shrugged. "Not particularly. Ever since... The work has been pretty routine."

"No aliens or pregnant werewolves then?" he grinned.

Molly laughed. "I wish, things would be much less dull."

Their drinks arrived and while John began preparing his tea the way he liked, Molly studied him. He was so sad it felt like her heart would break just at the sight of him. Sherlock had contacted her for the first time in seven months yesterday. He'd told her to ask John to lunch and see how he was doing and get back to him ASAP.

"John, how are you though? Really?

"I'm-"

"Don't say you're fine or alright. You're not fine or alright. And it's okay not to be. He was Sherlock Holmes. One doesn't easily get over that."

He sighed and stirred his tea. "I-I miss him so much, Molly. It feels like someone's cut out a vital part of me," John blinked back tears. "I don't know how to live without him Molly, not anymore."

"You loved him."

"No. I love him."

Molly wanted so badly to tell John he was alive. But if she did, Sherlock would probably hate her. She couldn't have that, couldn't go against his wishes.

She reached across the table and touched John's hand in a sign of friendship. He looked up at her.

"I've missed you. We should do this again, soon."

"Alright," he nodded.

* * *

Molly's mobile rang. "Hello?"

"Molly," a familiar, dark voice said.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes it's me, I haven't got much time. How did today go? How is John?"

"He's... Bad."

"Bad?"

"Yes. I told you he would take it hard, but I didn't think-"

"Is he suicidal?"

"No, not that I can tell. He's just empty, Sherlock. It was as if he were void of all emotion except sadness over your death and missing you."

"Does he suspect I'm alive?"

"No."

"Oh."

"That's all you have to say? Is 'oh'?"

"Goodbye Molly."

"Wait, Sherlock-!"

"I'll be in touch." The line went dead.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock stood next to John's bed, watching the doctor's grip tighten on what appeared to be his shirt as he whimpered.

"Sh... Sherlock..." John murmured, a tear rolling down his face.

Sherlock was torn. He wanted to stroke John's hair and whisper in his ear that it was okay and lull him into a peaceful sleep. But he couldn't, for he might wake him.

He couldn't stand it, so he gave up and left John's room quietly and sat down in his old chair. He could tell John was doing poorly as Molly had said. His dishes were piling up; the house was messed up in the same mess as he'd last seen it for the most part. John's limp was back.

He wasn't getting over the consulting detective. Sherlock had known it wouldn't be good, but he never anticipated this.

With a whoosh of his coat, he was gone.

* * *

He came back the next night. And the night after that, the night after that. Every night for two weeks after that. Just watched John sleep and left when the nightmares caused him physical and vocal reactions.

But tonight, he stayed and tentatively reached out to brush the hair from John's sweaty forehead.

"Shh, John. It's alright. Just a bad dream. It's okay."

"Sherlock?" he murmured, hearing the voice break through the dream but unable to pull himself out of it.

"Yes it's me, shh. Go to sleep John."

"Mmmm."

John fell into a dreamless slumber with a small smile on his lips.

Sherlock bent and kissed his temple lightly.

"Oh my John, what have I done?" he asked quietly.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Wow! Two people addedthis to their story alerts! Thank you sooo much guys! I have a lot of this planned, I don't think there will be more than 20 chapters but who knows? Please review... It'd make me happy and happiness leads to johnlock-y goodness faster :D**

John sat at the table reading the morning newspaper when there was a knock on the door. He hadn't expected anyone. Molly and Lestrade were at work and Mrs. Hudson had gone grocery shopping.

He picked up his cane and hobbled to the door.

"Who is it?" he called.

No reply.

"Whose there?"

John huffed in irritation and yanked the door open, his heart dropping to the floor as soon as he opened it.

The distinctly shaped lips lifted in a smirk. "Well hello John."

"Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh..."

"John, calm down. Yes, it's me."

The doctor's vision went black.

* * *

A slightly stinging sensation in John's cheek roused him. His eyelids fluttered and he looked up into the worried blue-grey eyes of Sherlock. Sherlock? That was... Sherlock. But he was dead.

"You're dead," he stated, getting up slowly.

Sherlock held out a hand to help up the shorter man which he didn't take. Sherlock sighed.

"Clearly not. I faked my death, John. It was necessary."

"You... You selfish bastard."

Sherlock snorted, how could John be so thick? He'd done this for John, not for himself. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Dr. Watson, but you do not know what happened that day. So I do not believe it is your place to pass judgements upon me."

John's hand curled into fist and he pulled his arm back, snapping it forward, punching Sherlock across the face, causing him to stumble backwards but not fall.

"John!"

"How could you do that to me?" he yelled. "You just left me all alone; did it ever occur to you that I might miss my best friend? That I would want to know you faked your death for what reason, to come back eight months later and say 'Just kidding'?"

"I never meant to cause you pain-"

"What the bloody hell did you think would happen? You were my best friend Sherlock. How could you do this to me?"

Sherlock hid his wince and the use of past tense. "If it helps, I wasn't the only one in on it."

John's eyebrows knitted together in confusion, but then realization dawned on him, "No. Molly."

"As well as Lestrade and Mycroft."

John sat down in his chair, burying his head in his hands with a groan.

Sherlock sat opposite him, in his chair, and they were quiet for a while. Eventually Sherlock said, "You asked me to not be dead, John. The second time you went to my grave, you cried and asked for one more miracle. Here we are and now you're upset. I don't understand."

John looked up at him with watery eyes. "I-I don't know. I guess I didn't really expect you to show up alive and well at my door... I'm sorry I punched you."

"Don't worry about it. I am truly sorry John. Please forgive me." Sherlock looked at the doctor through his eye lashes, creating a vulnerable expression that John couldn't resist.

He sighed heavily. "I forgive you, I guess."

Sherlock smiled a real smile and let out a breath he'd been holding. "Thank you John."

"Don't thank me. You're my best friend Sherlock, there's no way that I couldn't forgive you."

"True enough. What's her name?"

"Who's name?"

"The girl you're dating."

John shook his head, he'd have to get used to this again. "Uh... Mary. Actually, it ended last night."

"She found out you go to a therapist."

"...Yeah."

"You should stop going to her. She's an imbecile."

"I can't exactly argue there," John chuckled. "So, are you up for some Chinese?"


	9. Chapter 9

John and Sherlock sat on the couch, John in a pair of pajama pants and a gray T-shirt while Sherlock was still in his suit.

"So ask John. You have questions of course you do."

"Where did you go?"

"I travelled around the world. Russia, North America, Africa, Mongolia. Everywhere."

John had a tight grip on his knees and refused to look at Sherlock. "What were you doing?"

"I, as well as a few accomplices, tracked down and... Eliminated all of Moriarty's henchmen."

"Accomplices?"

"Irene Adler. A man named Thomas and another man called Jacob."

"And I'm going to guess that you came back now because you've taken care of them?"

"Correct."

"Did you ever think about-"

Sherlock cut him off. "Every day." Of course he'd thought about John. Of course.

"And... You let Molly in on it. And Lestrade. And your brother. Why not me?"

Sherlock sighed. "I needed Molly to help me with the body. Mycroft to help me with things aside from the body. And Lestrade was to ensure there were no questions asked."

"And me?"

"I couldn't tell you."

"Why? I could've helped you, Sherlock!" John practically yelled.

The consulting detective gazed at him calmly. "I had to make sure it would be believed. People had to mourn me. Who would mourn me the most? You. Lestrade would be upset that he lost his consulting detective that made him look intelligent. Molly would be upset about someone she fancies dying. But your reaction was entirely vital, it had to be as real as possible, and you wouldn't have been able to fake it."

John shook his head. "I still don't get why you had to do it in the first place. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, for Christ's sake!"

"I did it for you, John."

"_What?_"

"I... I had to complete the story. If I didn't you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson would have been shot and killed," he said quietly. "There were only two ways I could have saved you. Kill myself or get the recall code from Moriarty."

John took a deep breath and shifted. "Well, why didn't you go with the latter?"

"He shot himself in the head before I could get it from him."

John sat quietly, hands folded in his lap as he stared at the ground, his head pounding.

After a few minutes, Sherlock spoke. "You haven't changed the flat much. It's still about 85% the same as it was eight months ago."

"I-I-I... I couldn't..."

"Why?"

John stood up and turned to Sherlock, anger and frustration clear on his features. "Because Sherlock! Why can you not understand anything? You're a dick, you know that? You're a fucking dick!"

"I'm sorry, John."

"I don't care if you're sorry; the past eight months have been hell and you, what? Stood by and fucking watched! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "We've been over this John. You know my reasons for doing it. Please, do keep up."

John sat back down heavily on the couch and his fingers tangled in the sandy blond hair atop his head. "Sorry. It's just... I missed you. So much."

"I know. I missed you too, John," Sherlock admitted quietly. It took a long beat of silence before he looked over at the doctor and saw he had his face in his hands, shoulders shaking gently.

With a pale, slender hand, Sherlock gently and awkwardly patted John on the back a few times.

"There, there, John," he said unsurely. "It's... Okay."

Taking him by surprise, John turned and grabbed Sherlock, crushing him to his chest.

Sherlock panicked, unsure yet again, of what to do. Cautiously, he put his hands on John's back and held him back.

"Oh, Sherlock," John murmured into his shoulder.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, sinking further into the embrace. "I know, John. I know."


	10. Chapter 10

John lay in bed that night, his hands folded over his firm abdomen, mind whirling.

A part of him said this wasn't real. He was having a mental lapse of some sort. Sherlock was dead. Buried in the ground, under a tree, far away from the other tomb stones.

Another part of him told the first part to shut the hell up. _Sherlock is alive. I held him in my arms. It was all a clever scheme to protect me. _Of course_._ Why didn't he see it sooner?

John rolled over and tried to get comfortable. It seemed impossible. After about a half an hour, he gave up on the idea of sleep and slipped his dressing gown on to make a cup of tea and perhaps watch some late night telly.

When he got into the kitchen he found Sherlock sitting in a chair, texting furiously on his phone which continued to beep faster than his fingers could type.

"Would you like a cuppa?" John asked.

Sherlock made a sound of agreement so John filled the kettle enough for two.

John sat in silence across from the consulting detective, sipping the hot tea. While John adamantly believed a cup of tea could solve just about anything, he was still mildly uneasy.

"So... How was Africa?"

"Too hot for my taste. I got sunburn."

John grinned. "Sherlock Holmes, a sunburn?"

"Yes. And it didn't tan. It peeled and faded. I guess that answers whether or not I'll ever be a sunbather."

"Bad for your skin anyways."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"My pleasure. So-"

"John, stop making small talk. Say what you want to say," Sherlock cut him off.

John wrapped his hands around the half-empty mug, letting the warmth escape into his palms. "I don't know what I want to say, to be honest."

"Obviously you wish to speak to me more. You were unable to sleep due to the state of your thoughts."

"Well, yes."

"Then just start talking. It'll come out eventually."

"You knew."

"Knew what?"

"That I asked you for a miracle. How?"

"I was there."

John's eyebrows pulled together. "What?"

Sherlock set his phone down, ignoring the constant beeps. "I was there that day, when you and Mrs. Hudson went together. It was for me, I wanted to see you one last time before I left."

John looked away, unable to meet his eyes. His feelings were in a big tangle. He loved Sherlock, but he couldn't decide if things had changed now. John's stomach dropped. Did Sherlock know?

"How closely were you monitoring me then?"

"You were never really alone. I had a bodyguard protecting you at all times, thanks to my dear brother."

"Did you ever see me after the graveyard?"

"No. Not until I arrived back in London. I came into the flat sometimes. You had nightmares every night."

"Sherlock, I have PTSD and lost my best friend in the whole of the world. My limp is back and I've been going to therapy again. Of course I've been having nightmares."

"Yes I suppose you're right," he mumbled.

After a few moments of silence, John stood up. "Fancy finding something on the telly?"

Sherlock smiled, glad that he was welcomed back into routine. "Love to."

It took only a few minutes for Sherlock to get angry.

"Well obviously he's not the father. That's not a dominant allele!" He turned to John. "Why do I watch this rubbish with you? It's completely mind numbing and incompetent."

John smiled without looking at him. "That's why you like it, Sherly."

Sherlock's face scrunched up. "My name is Sherlock, John. Not Sherly. Call me Sherly ever again and I'll make sure you'll never be able to reproduce."

John chuckled and set his empty mug next to his feet. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

"Oh?" the consulting detective tilted his head. "But you've always said you want to settle down with a nice girl, have a family. I don't know why, children are disgusting creatures. I'd never visit your children, just so you know."

"I know you wouldn't Sherlock."

"Anyways, I know."

"Know what?"

"Why you won't have children, of course."

John looked at him, internally panicking.

"You think you're too old. John, forty is not that old. You're only six years older than me."

John shrugged. "But still, I'm an ex-army man with limp and other psychological issues. Who'd ever want to be with me?"

"John, don't be an idiot."

"Hey."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at how sensitive people could be. "You know what I mean. You're a wonderful man. You'll make a wonderful partner for someone someday."

"You really mean that?" John asked incredulously.

"Of course."

John used the hand that was stretched along the back of the couch to ruffle the hair at the back of Sherlock's hair. "Thanks."

"Of course," Sherlock repeated, resting his head on the shoulder of his best friend in an unusually affectionate gesture.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Sorry it's been longer for me to post than usual. I have my finals this week and I've been studying like a crazy person yet getting nowhere, so I gave up and wrote this chapter. I also have a new story if you wanna check it out, it's not part of Aftermath but it is post Reichenbach. I would post a link but it won't let me :( It's called Grave if you want to read it, it's not very long and I would greatly appreciate it!**

** Thanks for reading, please review!**

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table doing an experiment. Everything was slowly getting back to how it'd been before. John was his best friend; they had clients (Sherlock's name had been cleared thanks to his brother) and were solving crimes again - both privately and through the police.

Sherlock still got bored, John still got frustrated with him because he still left body parts where food should be, and Mrs. Hudson still fussed over them but insisted she wasn't their housekeeper.

Everything had gone back to how it had been. And yet, things were slightly different. When Sherlock was in even a small amount danger John would stand slightly in front him, something he had not done before. He was not left alone often, unless John left the flat to do the shopping, go to work, socialize (which was rare), or sleep.

While he didn't object to this because he knew most of it was subconscious and could not be helped by John, it concerned him. The doctor need not be so protective nor be so unwilling to let Sherlock out of his sight. He had no plans to leave again. He knew how badly it would hurt John because he knew John loved him.

Of course he knew of John's feelings. He was someone who could identify a man's job by looking at the outside of his wallet, so it was fairly simple to tell the emotions of a man who - despite his soldier background - wore his heart on his sleeve.

And Sherlock reciprocated those feelings. How could he not? The one person who put up with his messy habits, his experiments, his rudeness, his wildness, his mood swings, and who endured eight months of pain for him. He absolutely loved him. It was strange this feeling, not experienced outside of the way he loved his relatives, but not unpleasant in the least. It was a wonderfully elating feeling.

Over the past month since his return Sherlock had been trying to find a time to tell John. He hadn't wanted to say it right away, and since then they've been busy with cases and not had much time to talk about other things.

_Well why not tell him now?_his mind whispered.

Because it's two in the morning, that's why.

_John isn't asleep. He's upstairs reading._

Apparently this is an ungodly hour. One is not supposed to disturb flat mates at ungodly hours.

_It doesn't matter. When will you get another chance to tell him?_

Actually, there'll be plenty of times I can tell him.

_Stop being logical! Go tell him!_

Sherlock grumbled and got to his feet, climbing the stairs silently. He paused outside the door and took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself before knocking quickly.

"Yes?" John called.

"May I come in?"

"Of course."

Sherlock opened the door as John set his book on his bedside table. The consulting detective sat on the foot of his bed.

After a few minutes of silence, John asked, "Was there something you wanted?"

"Well, I suppose there is."

"What is it Sherlock?" John had a look of concern and confusion on his features.

"I know how you feel about me John. I know you're in love with me."

John froze.

"John?"

It took a moment for his face to thaw into an expression of shock.

"Oh."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"I believe this is the part where you ask something along the lines of what my feelings for you are."

"Well..." John began cautiously. "What are they?"

"I love you too, John," he said with a large grin.

"W-what?"

"I, Sherlock Holmes, am in love with you, John Watson."

"Are you toying with me? Because I swear-"

Sherlock shut him up by putting his lips against John's. He wasn't exactly sure what to do, this was his first kiss. But after John seemed to realize this was really happening, he showed Sherlock what to do.

They parted after a few moments, both of them flushed and panting.

"Is this... Are you... Did we..."

"Yes this is real. Yes I do love you. Yes we just kissed."

John looked around awkwardly. "But I always thought- I mean, you're-"

"I am what?"

"You don't like anyone."

Sherlock scoffed. "I don't like most people. However, I don't mind Molly, Lestrade, nor Mrs. Hudson. In fact I'd say they're my friends. And you are you."

John scowled. "Not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I mean romantically. I thought you were asexual. And married to your work."

"I thought I was, but then came you and things changed. I do not know what to call myself, but then again I never fit any labels."

"Sherlock..."

"Yes, John?"

"I... I need some time."

"I thought this was what you wanted," he said with confusion, a small inkling of hurt budding in his chest.

John sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "It is. God it is. But now that it's actually happening I just don't know how I feel."

The walls around Sherlock flew back up and he pushed all his emotions back into that deep, dark corner of his mind labeled "Dangerous". "Fine John. Whatever you want," he said icily. Sherlock gave a curt nod and stood, walking to the door.

"Sherlock don't be like that."

John looked up, but he was already gone.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock sat in his bed not moving, the sting of rejection finding its way to his heart.

This is ridiculous, he thought. I don't even care. Why should I? It's all just adrenaline, testosterone, serotonin, and dopamine.

He continued to tell himself that, but it was only to keep the flood of emotion from drowning him.

* * *

John also was sitting in his room, but instead of calculating, he was confused.

Why had he turned Sherlock away? He knew that it took a lot for the detective to reveal his emotions and let someone in. He had a wall, and under that wall was an impenetrable steel encasing. Yes somehow, it would seem he did penetrate it; and he turned him away? He wanted this. He wanted this for so long and now what?

He was mad at himself, but at the same time he wasn't sure this was the right thing for him and Sherlock right now. Things were starting to get normal again. And John wasn't sure he could completely trust Sherlock after those eight months.

John lay down, feeling exhausted.

* * *

The next morning, John came down the stairs to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, plucking at his violin but not actually playing it. He seemed to be unaware of John's presence.

"Sherlock."

"Mmmm."

"Look, I'm sorry for last night."

"I d-"

"No. You're gonna shut up and you'll bloody well listen to me," he interrupted. "I'm sorry about last night. I was confused, and honestly a little bit scared. I didn't know if you were doing it out of experimentation or genuine emotion."

"It was genuine, I can assure you," he interjected.

John continued as though Sherlock hadn't said anything.

"The thing is, you hurt me badly. You lied to me, convinced the people I consider my friends to lie to me, and made me mourn you. You expected me to move on and I didn't. Then you come back in my life and expect, what? To be in a relationship?

"It takes time to build trust again. Without trust there is no relationship. I do love you Sherlock. God help me, I'm in love with you. But I don't know for certain I trust you."

John took a deep breath and looked up from his lap to Sherlock. "But I think... I think that I will, eventually."

The consulting detective put his violin down.

"So, you're willing to give me a chance then?" he asked calmly, hoping his excitement wouldn't leak into his tone.

John smiled at him. "Yes. I am."

Sherlock grinned back. "I truly am sorry John."

"I know you are Sherlock. I know."

The dark haired man leaned forward and kissed John gently on the cheek. He knew everything would be okay.

**A/N: Well, this is the end. I wasn't sure how to end it but I thought this was an okay place to end it. As you may have noticed, I forced this chapter a bit, but I hope you're at least content with it. I didn't want to make this too much of a relationship fic. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, subscribed, and favorited, it means more to me than you can even imagine, so thank you thank you thank you! Also thanks for reading and all that lovely stuff. I hope you read some of my future fics, I have a kinda cutesy fic planned that will be multichaptered and I will take prompts/regquests for it, I hope to get the first few chapters written by mid June. I also have a Buffy/Sherlock crossover planned and I'm super excited about that one. Sorry for rambling, I hope you have an awesome day!**


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